


In Praise of Bliss

by Dore_N



Series: Under the Shadow of Elvhenan [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Oneshot, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Post-Veil, Too Many HeadCanons, bit of fluff bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:20:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28732596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dore_N/pseuds/Dore_N
Summary: At what felt like the second hour’s mark, they stumbled upon a clearing. A run-down stout cottage thatched with heather and walls made out of cob overlooked the wooded dell, and a field of delicate violet flowers laced the opening.Undisturbed.The cottage had not seen a visitor in a long time.They could make it theirs.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan
Series: Under the Shadow of Elvhenan [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140875
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9
Collections: Solasmance Cottage AU Challenge





	In Praise of Bliss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alexis_Trvlyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexis_Trvlyn/gifts), [Hezjena2023](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hezjena2023/gifts).



The air was cool and pleasant that morning.

The blades of grass brushed over his bound feet with each step that he took, and in their serene sway in the breeze they tinkled softly like a field of Crystal Grace. Solas loosened his grip on Mirwen’s hand, parting their palms just enough to make undulating motions between their fingertips. She smiled wanly at him as if awakened from deep thoughts, but mirrored his movements nevertheless. From the small gap between their hands, a silvery sliver of magic danced gleefully around their wrists, twisting, turning, tickling their skin before spilling over the grass below. The droplets of arcane glimmered in precise patterns in the pale morning sun, a dew to persist through the ages with the simple sound of their entwined heartbeats.

The Veil had been torn, and the forest was alive with magic once more.

In their need to be hidden, they had reached the Tirashan. Fate kept bringing him back to this place: from the sanctuary of the freed elvhen, to the collapsed cave which he had claimed for uthenera, and now to fleeing multiple warring factions.

He huffed a small laughter.

At any stage of his life he would have called these the actions of a coward. Now, it was the only solution to destroying the Blight once and for all. The Veil had allowed it to fester unhindered in the jail they called _the Black City_ , and its unravelling had allowed it to spill from its pitcher. It was foolish to think that the Life of the Fade could have held back the Nothingness that belonged in the Void.

And they should have never let the winding roads to the Void be created.

"Have you been here before?" Mirwen asked, squeezing his hand lightly and breaking his mind's slow descent.

How well she knew him.

Though the new question that bloomed from this branch caught a different form: _before the Empire? During the Rebellion, returning to the sanctuary? After the Veil was erected and the People needed a clean slate for their government?_

"I have," he recalled simply. "Many times and in what I would call _different worlds_."

"What was it like? Has it changed much?"

Solas closed his eyes. He let his lungs be filled with the fresh morning air, his ears inundated by the soft murmur of the Fade energies ebbing through the earth, and his senses by the scent of damp moss. The ravages of the wraiths and corrupted spirits spilling from the Fade had not reached the forest, and neither did the scenery change to match the broken landscape of what they used to call _the Beyond_.

It was simply suspended in time.

"It hasn't, no," his answer came in a low voice.

"Not even the elven sect that worships the Forgotten Ones?!" Mirwen pushed, amused.

He chuckled, and squeezed her hand in return. "They may have changed. Like all leaders they each had amassed their own groups of loyalists, who took different patterns of vallaslin. The colour was the same, though I doubt the meaning remained."

"The colour? You mean crimson?"

"Yes," he murmured. "Crimson for the red lyrium."

"Red lyrium?! What would lyrium in general have to do with vallaslin?"

Solas chastised himself for bringing up the subject, though he could not bring himself to tell her that the original blood writing used a different sort of blood. One that had been drained from the arteries connected to the very heart of a Pillar of the Earth that had given the Evanuris their foci.

Though the followers of the Forgotten Ones simply painted theirs in crimson to scare off the opposing soldiers.

"I'm afraid much would need to be expanded to do this detail justice, vhenan. In any case, their ancestors were instrumental in our rebellion."

She hummed unconvinced, and Solas was suddenly aware of the transparency of his words.

"Which is why this was also the place for my Uthenera chamber," he offered instead.

Mirwen laughed and he raised an eyebrow.

"My clan settled for a few years at the edges of the Tirashan, and now you tell me that we have been closer than I anticipated."

He shrugged coyly.

"My earliest memories," Mirwen continued, "are of my father and two other hunters - Eirlin and Idrillas - telling stories of seeing the notorious Dalish with peculiar brilliant red vallaslin watching them from the shadows. The stories had circulated the clan and at every Arlathvhen that I remember. They never attacked us, but they did go against any wandering humans. Though no one knew what gods those Dalish invoked during those fights. Lucky that _Geldauran_ stuck in my mind to connect the dots."

"Great luck indeed."

"Especially since apparently these details are too complex to condense," she said, trying for a serious tone before succumbing to a low giggle.

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

How much he had missed her laughter.

The next hour of trekking was filled with seemingly aimless discussions, jumping from one random topic to another - anything to provide a momentary distraction from the arduous mission they had embarked on. The sky, the trees, the glades… the drinks at the last tavern they had ventured in, the cobblestone they had last slept on. The disguises they wore, and how effective they had been. Which was not to say _completely ineffective._

Fortune had it that he had learnt Orlesian from Garion, one of his trusted agents stationed in Halamshiral back when the Inquisition's greatest hurdle was Corypheus. The language lessons had been put to good use at the Winter Palace when he had met with the now-Marquise of the Dales, Briala. This became useful yet again while trudging through Orlais, as they played the role of the Free Marcher and her failed bard lover. Their clothing was simple, devoid of any sartorial grandeur that may have come with the background, which worked well any time they reminded the patrons or passers-by that the wars took all from them.

Not that it was far from the truth, he supposed.

They both wore simple outfits in drab colours that they had fished out of a noble's refuse pile - something about changing the servant's uniforms to match the current dire events. Then they added stitches, patches, anything to make the garments seem well worn for a travelling pair. Wigs were worn by each: Solas had flaxen hair cut in a similar style as Cole's was, and had to resist parting the fringe every other minute, while Mirwen's was russet, framing and covering as much of her face as possible with waves and waves. A cloak was covering the arm that the Anchor took from her, and they tried to avoid putting up their hoods as much as possible, so as to not attract attention. It was better to hide in plain sight. Neither of them needed a staff. His powers had been fully restored, and with the Veil torn Mirwen had no need for a focus anymore, especially not if she was to use solely the spells that once fell under the _Rift_ school.

They were indistinguishable from the multitude of refugees crowding the streets of Orlesian cities.

At what felt like the second hour’s mark, they stumbled upon a clearing. A run-down stout cottage thatched with heather and walls made out of cob overlooked the wooded dell, and a field of delicate violet flowers laced the opening. _Undisturbed_. The cottage had not seen a visitor in a long time.

“We could make camp here for a while. Gather some healing herbs, cook some food...” Mirwen tested, but he could hear her beam through her words.

_There is not enough time. We must push forward. We must reach the Hundred Pillars mountains before it is too late._

“We could,” he decided instead, and he watched her tired eyes become lively again.

They carefully entered the cottage. It was modestly-furnished, with a straw mattress on a creaky bed, shelves with sparse jars filled with long-dried herbs, a small square table and a chair, one cauldron and a few utensils to accompany it, and it was all enveloped in a strong musty scent.

They began to unclasp their cloaks, remove their wigs, let their bags fall onto the floor with a dull thump, and sat next to the bed shoulder to shoulder. An unexpected sense of serenity threatened to overwhelm him as he took in the simple walls that shielded them.

They could stay there for longer.

“Here is our meal,” Mirwen said, throwing two rabbits on the ground.

She found him lying on the grass, one hand under his head and the other rolling a flower he had plucked from the patch beside him. The sun had reached its zenith and its rays were warm on his skin. His shirt and trousers were rolled up, and he could see that they matched Mirwen’s. Solas had been tasked with finding a source of water and making a fire pit. He had finished his tasks by the time she returned, and the water was simmering happily.

He sat up, but Mirwen pushed him back by placing her palm on his chest. He enveloped her with his arm and let himself fall back onto the plush grass.

There had not been many moments of respite since he had left the Inquisition, and even less once the nations’ leaders caught wind of what plans were brewing in the shadows. Not having access to the largest part of the Eluvian network had made their mission even more arduous, as did the fact that had he used his powers the enraged wraiths would come storming their location.

 _Not that they are wrong to feel this way_ , Solas thought, as the images of the dreamer rags, sodden with ichor - all that remained from slain wraiths - stabbed his heart sharply.

But her hand was soothing, placed above the wound. Her hair was softly brushing his cheeks in the calm breeze. The water was bubbling above the crackling flames, the forest was bountiful. The skies were clear and everything seemed unchanged.

He felt delirious for even taking this short reprieve.

But how he wished they could lose themselves there, in the Tirashan, in an unending wakeful Uthenera.

**Author's Note:**

> It has been a while since I wrote anything for my dear Solavellan pairing and I am very grateful to the lovely Alexis and Hezjena for nudging me to do so ❤ This is set in the same worldstate as my longfic 'Under the Shadow of Elvhenan' that is still undergoing massive reconstructions. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading!! ❤


End file.
